The Ambush at Rasaouine
or, The Sixth Move of the Civil War
The Fifth Move | The Civil War Index | The Seventh Move
The column crawled along the shadowed valley floor. Sandstone cliffs rose on both sides offering reprieve from the late afternoon sun, tufts of pale grasses grew in the crags hiding venomous snakes. The road was coated in the thin layer of sand that the winds cast upon all things that remained still for too long. This place eats all that enter, Legate Otho thought. He rode with the cavalry near the rear of the column, only the engineers, slaves, and mules were behind. From there he could see his whole legion, all two thousand five hundred soldiers. Almost a third from when he’d started the conquest of Solluba. A conquest unfinished. A population made bitter and resentful left to linger. Otho expected the Solluban’s to nurse their anger, keep it warm, until they could strike. The Solluban King had signed the truce but only after Otho had personally put his first-born son in the sand. Such a truce would not hold for long, but maybe long enough, Otho thoughts drifted to Livicus’s betrayal.
Tribune Timeon galloped the length of the column, sand plumed under his horse’s hooves obscuring the view and covering the legionaries in a fine layer of dust. ‘Legate!’ He yanked on the reins, his horse skittering to a halt before rearing and braying. ‘The watchtower’s empty,’ sweat dripped down his dust covered face, his lips were white and cracked.
‘Rovers? Bandits?’ Otho said.
‘No sign of a battle from down here,’ Timeon said.
Otho peered up and down the column. The last of the baggage train would be entering the valley road soon, if they hadn’t already, and the skirmishers and scouts at the head of the column would be half a watch from the mouth. Beyond the valley was hundreds of miles of steppe. The well town of Rasaouine lay three miles from the valley and would serve as camp for the night. ‘Have the scouts returned?’
‘This mornings reported nothing. This afternoons have yet to return,’ Timeon drank from a waterskin. He brought his horse close to Otho’s, ‘Should we halt?’ He whispered.
‘No. We have to get out of the valley. Halting would only lower morale,’ Otho said. The whistle of an arrow split the valley. A spurt of blood stained the sandy road and a legionary fell dead, his scutum and gladius clattering on the stone. The thrumming of bowstrings rang out and a thousand arrows blotted out the sky. ‘TESTUDO!’ Otho bellowed. The horn sounded the order throughout the valley, the deep boom crescendoing off the the valley walls. ‘Take the cavalry and charge for the open steppe,’ Otho ordered Tribune Timeon. He saluted and led the equites from the road in triple file and raced down the length of the column. A dozen men toppled from their saddles, arrows blooming.
Screams of death accented the clashing of scutum interlocking. Hundreds perished. Otho’s horse screeched and reared. Clasping the reins in one hand and the mane in the other he held himself to the steed’s neck, an arrow pierced it’s hind leg. It landed hard on it’s front hooves and Otho strained to keep the animal from bolting. The volleys ceased.
‘Legate Otho!’ A lyrical accent called. A man in a black kaftan bunched under lamellar armour appeared on the precipice of the valley. His thick knotted black beard burst from under his plumed helmet. ‘His Eminence wished a parting gift for you,’ Harith ibn al-Mundhir, Amir of Solluba, raised a hand. A thousand bowman appeared atop the valley walls, arrows nocked.
‘His Eminence signed a truce! Are the agreements of the Solluba worth less than the sand you live on?’ Legate Otho shouted. Dying men groaned and writhed under the testudo formations lining the valley road. The skirmishers and archers had little hope of surviving. If they could recover the scuta of the fallen, then…
‘A man kills another’s son and expects peace? A man rapes his neighbours wives, pillages his land, and expects peace? There can be no peace between our peoples. Our blood soaks these sands and I will make certain yours does too!’ Harith’s hand fell.
Legate Otho slid from the saddle. Bows creaked. Otho shouted, ‘Advance!’ and sprinted for the century ten yards ahead of him. Arrows whistled and slammed into the shield walls, shafts shattered on impact and other’s slipped through the gaps beneath the curved steel ceiling. Men screamed and gargled blood, the testudo’s shrank as they marched at pace. Otho slipped between two shields as an arrow punctured the hardened leather armour on his calf. Warm blood sluiced into his sandal. Now I’m lame too, he mocked himself. ‘At least the gods have a sense of humour,’ he cursed and hobbled along within the testudo. The soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder, scutum overhead. He pulled the arrow free from his leg, the tip tearing fresh wounds into his flesh, a gush of blood stained the road beneath his feet and he limped his way to the front row of the formation.
Arrows pinged off the surface of the shields. Otho squinted through the gap of a curved shield to see the testudo ahead marching on. Bodies littered the road and each one caused the formation to splinter and crack for a brief moment. The soldier beside him grunted and shivered, an arrow protruding from his muscled arm. He kept marching. ‘Pick up the pace!’ Otho yelled. He began to jog, blood pulsed from his calf. Why aren’t the archers firing? They can’t all be dead. The testudo ahead shuddered to a halt. ‘Press up against that century and combine formations,’ his voice reverberated off the scuta. In one motion the front and rear shields were lifted overhead. Otho hobbled his way to the new first row.
‘Legate,’ the centurion saluted. Black circles ringed his eyes and a grey-brown stubble coated his chin. ‘The mouth of the valley has been closed off. Reports of Sobullan spearmen.’
The roof of the testudo ahead opened and a handful of arrows flew out. As the shields rippled closed a hundred arrows pierced the steel with the sound of hail. A thud sounded in the valley, a Solluban archer lay dead on the valley floor his bow cracked and one leg twisted broken beneath him, an arrow bloomed from his throat. Otho allowed himself a drop of satisfaction but knew one dead archer mattered little.
The ground began to tremble and a harrowing trumpet call sounded unlike one from a brass instrument. Then came the rumble and roar. ‘Get me to that century,’ the legate ordered and the two centuries marched to buttress up with the single century ahead. Otho slid between the scutum and barged his way to the front. He peered through the narrow opening and cold sweat trickled down his neck. Elephants. The grey brown beasts lumbered into the narrow valley. Well thrown pila could enrage the monsters and swift manoeuvring could reduce the chance of trampling. The valley, however, was narrow. The archers dead or dying. The opportunity to throw a pilum non-existent with Harith’s bowmen. But maybe…
‘Pila!’ Otho bellowed. ‘Fill every gap with them!’ He hoped the quantity would overcome the weakness of the one-handed thrusts against the thick leathery skin of elephants. If the beasts could be downed then victory was possible. How much use his legion would be for the Emperor afterwards, well that was for the Most Venerable to decide. The instruction was repeated by the centurions ahead and behind.
The elephants trumpeted and roared. Steel scraped steel as the pila were thrust forth between scuta. The first elephant reared back, front legs kicking, it landed crashing into the testudo wall. Steel and bone crunched. With a swing of its tusks the beast gouged a whole rank of Elysian legionaries, tossing them left and right. Each became targets for the bowmen up top. By the gods, Otho swallowed his horror. ‘Advance!’ He ordered. ‘Hold firm!’ The testudo shuddered forward. A second and third elephant appeared on the flanks of the first, their riders draped in lamellar plate and goggled helms. One rider drew a knife from his belt and jabbed it into the side of his elephant. The monstrous animal trumpeted and charged swinging it’s tusks left and right. The vanguard testudo was shattered and the survivors launched their pila at the elephant. The javelins pierced the hide but served only to enrage the animal further. Men were tossed through the air like dolls, their crumpled forms smashed against the jagged rocks of the cliffs only to be pummelled with arrows.
The lone rampaging elephant hurtled towards Otho and his century. ‘Part!’ He cried. The testudo broke down the middle and fled the road. Men on the inner flanks caught arrows for the trouble but none fell. The elephant careened onwards up the road throwing its head left and right, the tusks cratering scutum on both formations. On the back swing three shields were wrenched free, their wielders with them. Solluban bowmen wasted no time soaking the sand with the life of four more Elysians. ‘Advance!’ Otho’s voice quavered. Two elephants remained ahead, neither enraged but close to it, and the remaining centuries were little more than contubernia huddled together beneath a dome of spiked steel.
The soldier’s behind fared little better. The elephant crashed into the testudo behind with reckless savagery, its rider hung from the saddle with a pilum in his chest. The beasts legs sprouted pila yet it trampled the soldiers all the same. Otho scanned the terror stricken faces of his century, all had narrow pupils and cheeks bleached white. In two years they had faced elephants twice, both times on open ground and with plenty of bowmen, the creatures had been lumbering oafs then but now Harith had deployed them expertly. Otho peered between the head’s of his men and saw a massive roiling dust cloud rising behind the column. Squinting he was certain Harith’s camelry had ravaged the engineers and baggage train, soon the rear guard would be harassed.
The ground trembled and an elephant cried out in a whimpering bellow. Otho turned to see the great beast’s rider tumble from his saddle, the beast dead beside him, his right flank a mess of gore. He heard the cheers from the soldier’s within the spiked dome ahead. The remaining elephant roared and reared back to slam its front legs down onto the Elysians. Pila bent, scuta cratered, and bones broke beneath the force. The dome was flattened, a mess of bloodied flesh and iron. The elephant tossed a tusk and impaled the centurion beneath the jaw. Dragged, bloody and gasping, the man clawed at the bone before falling limp. The last soldier crawled for a discarded pilum only to be crushed as his hand grasped it. A resounding cheer erupted overhead. But the elephant knew only rage now and charged for the other half of Otho’s century. The men on the other side of the road braced and burst out from the defensive formation into a hail of arrows.
Glints of light flashed at the mouth of the valley, the dust thinned and Otho lost all hope. Harith ibn al-Mundhir had positioned a phalanx to seal the valley road, their spears already dripping with gore. ‘HALT!’ Otho ordered. The rain of arrows continued for a little while longer. Then only the elephant, rampaging through the last of Otho’s legion, could be heard.
‘Otho!’ Harith called. ‘If you still live show yourself. I offer terms.’
It’s a trap, Otho thought. He looked to the legionaries around him. Grim expressions of men already dead stared back at him. The legate emerged into the harsh light of day. The stench of death clawed at his nose and dust caked his throat. His calf was numb but the blood still ran. ‘Before you wanted to feed the land with our blood, what changed?’
‘I would prefer to have you live with the memory of this humiliation. Killing you would only steel the resolve of your countrymen, keeping you alive will weaken them. Keeping you alive means Solluba lives in peace,’ the Amir peered down from atop the valley cliff. ‘That wound will fester if it isn’t cleaned soon,’ Harith pinched his beard between thumb and forefinger. ‘Surrender and those of you alive will remain so until ransom can be arranged with Elysia. That is, if your senators will have a defeated legion back,’ a smug smile appeared on his lips.
Yes, but I will be finished. ‘How can I trust your word? Not a week since the truce was signed it is broken—’
Harith rose a hand, ‘You cannot trust me but your only other option is death for you and your men. Do you take a chance at life or certain death?’ He rose his other hand and imitated a pair of scales. ‘Decide. Now.’ He clapped.
Otho wanted to launch a javelin at Harith and lead his troops to smash through the phalanx, their long spears were useless against a close quarters shield wall. But how to deal with the archers… fanciful thinking. ‘I surrender,’ he said knowing the choice would haunt up for the rest of his days. Would his men thank him or treat him with scorn for preventing them an honourable death. It didn’t matter, not in the end, either he died in the desert or would return to serve Emperor Maedicius III once again.
‘Drop your weapons and gather beneath the watchtower,’ Harith said. He then barked an order in his own tongue and the archers unleashed a volley at the remaining elephant accompanied by the clattering of steel on stone. The beast roared and died, a thousand arrows blooming on its hide.
Otho led the survivors out of the valley. Hundreds of men lay dead along the road, crushed or pierced through with arrows. He recognised each and everyone. Magnus whose son had joined the legion the day he’d left for Solluba. Lucius who’d signed for another campaign to get away from the city. Cornelius who’d just become a father. So many men in their prime. Good men. All lay dead, their blood watering the sand like Harith ibn al-Mundhir had promised. Otho reached the mouth of the valley and to his left he saw his cavalry, flies and vultures already feasting on the corpses of steed and soldier alike. Timeon would be amongst them, an honourable life cut short. He met the eyes of each of his men who’d survived. Some were relieved, other’s stared into the distance, and a few were filled with rage. A quick count disheartened Otho completely. Less than two hundred out of two thousand five hundred survived. He doubted any slaves or engineers had made it through the battle, only seven archers had. How he didn’t know. Perhaps one day they’ll tell their children this tale. First we must wait and see if Livicus and the Diet deliver a ransom, Otho was pessimistic. Otho’s allegiance to Emperor Maedicicus was well known even before Livicus’s ultimatum and the pigeon scroll summons to Ovilava had reached him with a broken seal.
The Fifth Move | The Civil War Index | The Seventh Move
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I'm enjoying this immensely. As a Roman history nut, I like how you've created your own World to mirror it. The battles are intense; the political backstabbing and plotting are first rate.
I was going to ask what was missing from this sentence? "Otho had personally his first-born son in the sand." But I'm guessing from the betrayal that he killed the chief's son.
Yes, it's a sad thing when you won't honor your own truce.
I'm sure that if the Emperor survives his own betrayal, there'll be hell to pay for it.